T he Siren The smell of gunpowder approaches as the siren of the third world war is heard; frightened are the people and the birds, the trees, the sky, and the earth: I will not go to your war—not now. I have spoken much of food, spoken of multinational lamentations, of rivers of blood— and now I am terribly weary from speaking of such slaughter. You did not listen. With flames in your eyes, you produced gunpowder; you split the atom, and sold the poison of agony. I have spoken often of flowers. I have described the shimmering flow of rivers, praised the beauty of blue skies, like the restless tidewater, and laid our pain and weariness in golden letters of poetry. I have traced the cries of newborns, tirelessly, across the corners of this planet— so that you might soften, even a little. But your empires— you have adorned them like dazzling teeth with the glow of terrifying nuclear fire. The wild siren of destruction blare...